“Then we are in agreement, no?” Michal turned back to the man at his side, watching and waiting for some indication of just how far he intended to take this vie for power.
The corners of Carlos’s mouth curled into a sly smile. “We are in agreement.”
Michal nodded. “A wise decision.” He surveyed the group once more. “We must take advantage of this time to rest and hone our skills. We have some time yet before our next mission. This one will be tricky. Keen focus will be the key. No one—” He shot a sidelong glance at Carlos. “No one can be distracted. This is assuredly not the time for division.”
Carlos merely stared back at him, his previous display of aggression reined in for the most part.“No one,”he agreed pointedly.
Michal left it at that and sought refuge outside in the coming gloom. The air was cool and he filled his lungs with the pleasant scents of the changing season. He closed his eyes and tried to remember how his homeland smelled. But it had been far too long since he had set foot upon that soil and, in an effort to keep his sanity, he had worked far too diligently to banish it from his mind to recall it now. A high price had been leveled on his head there; he was considered a murderer and worse. In reality, he had no homeland. But he no longer cared. He had stopped caring about anything at all two years ago.
Forcing his thoughts away from the woman inside, he surveyed the grounds for as far as he could see in the encroaching dusk. The perimeter guards moved around soundlessly, all of whom would have taken note of his presence the instant he exited the house. Michal had many dedicated men at his disposal, any of which would willingly die for him. Except, perhaps, for Carlos. Until a few days ago he would have said the same for him. But he had changed of late, particularly since Amira’s return. That, too, seemed suspect to Michal. Though Carlos’s rationale for being disturbed by her presence was sound, there was something more going on.
Only time would reveal this unknown factor. Michal turned and stared up at the room—his room—where he held Amira prisoner. Just as time would also determine her fate.
HE WASN’T COMINGback.
Ami sucked in another shaky breath, mentally commanding herself to pull it together. She had to think. She couldn’t just stand here and wait for him to return. She had to run. To hide. Something.
She pushed off from the door where she’d remained glued even after he’d walked out of the room. She simply hadn’t had the strength or courage to move away from the support it gave or the hope it offered since it led to the balcony outside. But the guards were out there, as well. He’d said they had orders to shoot. She shuddered.
Clothes. First, she needed clothes.
She looked down at herself again and fought another wave of terror as she considered that he, or someone who worked for him, had undressed her. That was done. Nothing she could do about it. She looked around the room and decided to start with the armoire. All she had to do was make it across the room.
Putting one foot in front of the other, she slowly made the journey, praying with each step that the floor wouldn’t creak, giving her movements away. She felt certain there would be a guard right outside her door.
Slowly she opened the armoire doors, her heart thudding so hard she could scarcely hear herself think. She scanned the folded items on the shelves, then opened each drawer in turn, sorting through the contents as carefully as possible so as not to leave anything out of place.
Nothing she had been wearing when she rushed out of the hospital.
Jeans, shirts…all, she presumed, belonging to her captor.
She turned to survey the room once more. Where were her clothes? Surely they wouldn’t have thrown them away.
Moving more quickly now, she got down on her hands and knees and looked under the bed. Nothing.
She pushed to her feet and rushed to the en suite bathroom and came up empty-handed again. Towels and face-cloths, toiletries.
Her pulse fluttering wildly, she moved back into the large bedroom. Everything she’d been wearing was gone. She remembered that she hadn’t had her purse with her so she had no ID other than her hospital badge, and no money.
A phone.
She glanced around frantically. She needed a phone.
An old-fashioned, rotary-base telephone sat on the table between the two chairs next to the armoire. She ran toward it, almost stumbling in her haste, and snatched up the receiver.
The line was dead.
She had to bite down on her lower lip to hold back a cry of panic and to regulate the breathing that was coming in ragged spurts. Why wasn’t there a dial tone?
She got down on her hands and knees and traced the line leading from the telephone to the wall.
Two inches from the wall jack the line lay on the floor, severed completely. She jammed the ends together and tried to think of some way to tape it. That would work, wouldn’t it?
She scrambled up and back to the bathroom in search of any kind of tape. Bandages, gauze tape, anything. She flung the contents of the various drawers to the floor, no longer concerned with caution.
Nothing.
No kind of tape and not a single item she could use for a weapon.
